It was a February of 1988 when it started. My family lived in the Shenandoah Valley in Northern Virginia, the mild winter and a mandate from the North brought us outside. My younger brother, David, had some physical delays that meant at almost 9 years of age he needed training wheels on his bike. My middle brother, Robert, dangled the offer of "any bicycle he wanted" as a prize to get David moving. David responded with the enthusiasm of vegan offered a steak. I was tasked with teaching my brother, only a year younger than I, how to ride. My Dad worked long hours and was frequently "on call" and my mom never learned to ride a bike having suffered a delicate constitution throughout her childhood. We lived at the bottom of a hill, our driveway split toward the trailer with the other fork leading to a "crick" or creek for those you that don't speak Virginian. This translated to no traffic until Dad came home or the landlady visited.
So I taught my wobbly brother to use the brakes on my little purple bike. David weaved and lurched through the yard, crushing only a few of the landlady's flowers (the tyrant kept track and scolded my mother, who in turn scolded me). Once he could brake, I put him on the hill to get some momentum and eventually he could ride down the hill and through the yard, without killing any daffodils. Mostly because the daffodils were gone and the irises were blooming.
I stationed Mom at the bottom of the hill near a tree (something David was used to avoiding) and David walked the bike up the hill. He came flying at Mom, as she was cheering him on. He missed her and the irises, but nearly went in the creek. It was exciting and Mom thought David did a great job.
Now she wanted to learn. Most grown women would have had a problem trying to ride that bike. It was two years growth too small for me. Mom was only 4'8 at least 4 inches shorter than I was at the time. It would work out great because David was getting a new bike and Mom would ride the purple one... David on one side and I on the other and we walked mom and the bike around the yard. She was wobbly but seemed to be catching on quickly. We had her on the hill within an hour. Going a few feet up the incline with each ride, things were going well. David and I running alongside and coaching her as she went.
I believe Mom was torn between having dinner on the table and being able to show my dad her new skill when he came home. Whatever the catalyst was, she decided she HAD to try from the top of the hill sooner rather than later. Not yet 10 years old I listened to her. David and I knew we wouldn't be able to keep up as she came down that hill. So I would run down the hill and he would run with her in the yard.
We were at the top of the hill, the precipice of a new life where mom could go on bike rides with us. A future where she might ride to the store to get groceries or to visit a neighbor. I can smell the the flowers and the anxiety, while feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. We started, slowly at first. David was out of sight around the bend. I shouted and cheered and ran full speed next to her. It was going great! David had already become distracted. We reached the bottom of the hill where he was supposed to run with her. She flew past him picking the flowers we weren't supposed to touch. Mom was out of control and had no guide. Her fear of water dictated her actions and she veered toward the trailer. I stood helpless, not voiceless screaming for her to stop as the drive towards the trailer was half the length of the planned route toward the creek. Her legs stuck out from the sides of the bike. She was no longer floundering when she crashed full speed into the trailer. The bed of irises and lilies cushioned her impact. Fortunately she was uninjured. The little purple bike was never quite the same however.
Robert was called and told of David's accomplishment. David would be getting a new bike for all his hard work.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
New bicycles
After teaching my brother (see that story), David, to ride a bicycle it was time for him to choose his prize. Robert, our middle bother,sent a check to make the purchase of a nice bicycle for David. After seeing the amount of the check Mom and Dad judiciously decided that two bikes should be purchased, no helmets.
We traveled to Kmart for David to choose the bike he wanted. A turquoise ten speed with hand brakes. My bike was the women's counterpart. I loved it. Though I was very upset that it wasn't going to be assembled in the store. Dad being a bit of a procrastinator and having long work days would not be assembling the bikes right away.
I am not sure how long it was before the bikes were assembled, but the first time we rode them I will never forget. My sister's family was making a rare visit for her birthday, February 19, 1989. The day was lovely. Mom was making a big dinner. Dad assembled the bikes. David would get to ride with Dad first as he "earned" the bicycles. I wanted Dad to ride his own bike and let us both go. He refused and took my bike. It was disappointing that I wasn't first to ride my new bike.
After a half hour or so they returned. Dad gave me an intense instructional on how to use the handbrakes. Putting the fear of God and flipping over the handle bars into me. I practiced before we left. We discussed how turning into our driveway might be tricky if going too fast. Have you ever transitioned from asphalt to gravel to grass at a high rate of speed on a ten speed's skinny tires? Not easy. We were new to the house and the road was parallel to the drive and on a sharp curve. The hill our house topped was a 61 degree angle with small bridge at the bottom. If I couldn't stop it was best just to follow the road.
We started off and rode about a half mile testing different gears and enjoying the wind in our faces. Turning back, because Mom was expecting help and company was coming. It was a really great ride. Until it came time to slow down and turn into the yard. The brakes wouldn't work! I wasn't slowing down. Fifteen mph as I passed the driveway. Twenty-five around the bend. Thirty as I crossed the bridge. Heading up the next hill I thanked God I was still alive.
I was angry. He put the bike together wrong. My brakes didn't work. I didn't want to ride it till it was fixed. Dad disagreed. We argued.
10 year old me, "Please fix it first."
"No way, either ride it up the hill or you don't get to keep it."
"Dad the brakes don't work. Can't I just walk it back so you can fix it?"
"No. You will be too scared to ride it again. Get back on the horse."
"Dad!"
"No, either ride it or it goes in storage."
I walk the bike further up the hill opposite our house. I will need the momentum to climb the big hill. One more time I try to reason with him. Reason fails and I shoot past him down the hill.
I love my bike! I love riding without my knees under my chin. The freedom...
The chain comes off the bike. I was .25 seconds before the bridge, in that gravelly spot that can be found on either side of every bridge. The bike stopped without warning and went down, like a giant hand flicked me over. The skin on the left side of my face was ripped off. My left front tooth broken in half and worn in layers like shale. I lay at the side of the road, numb. Dad stops to see what happened. He helps me up. Tells me to get back on the bike.
This time I refuse. He is yelling. I am crying. I pick up the bike and start walking. He is yelling about how he will keep the bike locked up. I need to get right back on. Half way up the hill the pain hits. I can't take his words any more and throw the bike into the grass. I run as fast as my broken body will go. My hips and knees throb. My side is covered not with road rash as I didn't slide, but dents, cuts, and imbedded gravel. I run to get away from his voice.
Inside Mom greets me with a task of some sort. But drops the dishtowel and I see in her face that it is really bad. Rushing to the bathroom. I don't turn on the light but look in the mirror in the darkened room. What I see frightens me. Suffering harsh words from family and peers about my appearance on a good day, I don't see anything salvageable in the mirror. HALF of it is gone. The light comes on and mom says I need to make sure there isn't any gravel in my skin. SHE needs to make a phone call.Sobbing I probe my face for gravel.
Mom is on the phone with Kay, "Yes, it is bad. She is crying about her face. Didn't realize she is so vain. Let me ask her." Then to me, "Do you want Kay to stay away?" foot tapping. Kay is her best friend. Kay is the best. It IS Kay's birthday. "Yes, I want Kay to come." It will be a distraction. Maybe she can talk some sense into Dad about letting me ride the bike.
Kay comes with her husband and baby. They stare. I eat applesauce for dinner, while they eat steak and all the fixings. Applesauce, for 3 weeks because chewing hurt and could open a scab. No one thinks to buy straws so I can drink with out hurting the wreckage left in my mouth.
I miss school. But Dad calls and tells the teacher "I had an accident because I didn't know how to ride my bike." The teacher shares that story with the class to prepare them for my eventual return and the wreckage that no doubt would be my face.
Dad tells everyone the same story. It is 23 years before I find out that it wasn't my classmates being mean, making stuff up. They believed what they were told. People at church had heard of similar incidents, people flipping over their handlebars. My brothers believed it. My sister thought it made sense.
Looking back I realize how blessed I was that day and during the healing process. I was riding my bike that spring after it was repaired. Yes, it might have been vain to pray so hard for something superficial like your face, but God answered that prayer. I had no scarring and no discoloration of my skin. The damaged tooth took much longer to heal and became a feature player in my appearance. If the chain had come off a fraction of a second later I would have hit the side of the bridge and my story would have ended with a broken neck.
We traveled to Kmart for David to choose the bike he wanted. A turquoise ten speed with hand brakes. My bike was the women's counterpart. I loved it. Though I was very upset that it wasn't going to be assembled in the store. Dad being a bit of a procrastinator and having long work days would not be assembling the bikes right away.
I am not sure how long it was before the bikes were assembled, but the first time we rode them I will never forget. My sister's family was making a rare visit for her birthday, February 19, 1989. The day was lovely. Mom was making a big dinner. Dad assembled the bikes. David would get to ride with Dad first as he "earned" the bicycles. I wanted Dad to ride his own bike and let us both go. He refused and took my bike. It was disappointing that I wasn't first to ride my new bike.
After a half hour or so they returned. Dad gave me an intense instructional on how to use the handbrakes. Putting the fear of God and flipping over the handle bars into me. I practiced before we left. We discussed how turning into our driveway might be tricky if going too fast. Have you ever transitioned from asphalt to gravel to grass at a high rate of speed on a ten speed's skinny tires? Not easy. We were new to the house and the road was parallel to the drive and on a sharp curve. The hill our house topped was a 61 degree angle with small bridge at the bottom. If I couldn't stop it was best just to follow the road.
We started off and rode about a half mile testing different gears and enjoying the wind in our faces. Turning back, because Mom was expecting help and company was coming. It was a really great ride. Until it came time to slow down and turn into the yard. The brakes wouldn't work! I wasn't slowing down. Fifteen mph as I passed the driveway. Twenty-five around the bend. Thirty as I crossed the bridge. Heading up the next hill I thanked God I was still alive.
I was angry. He put the bike together wrong. My brakes didn't work. I didn't want to ride it till it was fixed. Dad disagreed. We argued.
10 year old me, "Please fix it first."
"No way, either ride it up the hill or you don't get to keep it."
"Dad the brakes don't work. Can't I just walk it back so you can fix it?"
"No. You will be too scared to ride it again. Get back on the horse."
"Dad!"
"No, either ride it or it goes in storage."
I walk the bike further up the hill opposite our house. I will need the momentum to climb the big hill. One more time I try to reason with him. Reason fails and I shoot past him down the hill.
I love my bike! I love riding without my knees under my chin. The freedom...
The chain comes off the bike. I was .25 seconds before the bridge, in that gravelly spot that can be found on either side of every bridge. The bike stopped without warning and went down, like a giant hand flicked me over. The skin on the left side of my face was ripped off. My left front tooth broken in half and worn in layers like shale. I lay at the side of the road, numb. Dad stops to see what happened. He helps me up. Tells me to get back on the bike.
This time I refuse. He is yelling. I am crying. I pick up the bike and start walking. He is yelling about how he will keep the bike locked up. I need to get right back on. Half way up the hill the pain hits. I can't take his words any more and throw the bike into the grass. I run as fast as my broken body will go. My hips and knees throb. My side is covered not with road rash as I didn't slide, but dents, cuts, and imbedded gravel. I run to get away from his voice.
Inside Mom greets me with a task of some sort. But drops the dishtowel and I see in her face that it is really bad. Rushing to the bathroom. I don't turn on the light but look in the mirror in the darkened room. What I see frightens me. Suffering harsh words from family and peers about my appearance on a good day, I don't see anything salvageable in the mirror. HALF of it is gone. The light comes on and mom says I need to make sure there isn't any gravel in my skin. SHE needs to make a phone call.Sobbing I probe my face for gravel.
Mom is on the phone with Kay, "Yes, it is bad. She is crying about her face. Didn't realize she is so vain. Let me ask her." Then to me, "Do you want Kay to stay away?" foot tapping. Kay is her best friend. Kay is the best. It IS Kay's birthday. "Yes, I want Kay to come." It will be a distraction. Maybe she can talk some sense into Dad about letting me ride the bike.
Kay comes with her husband and baby. They stare. I eat applesauce for dinner, while they eat steak and all the fixings. Applesauce, for 3 weeks because chewing hurt and could open a scab. No one thinks to buy straws so I can drink with out hurting the wreckage left in my mouth.
I miss school. But Dad calls and tells the teacher "I had an accident because I didn't know how to ride my bike." The teacher shares that story with the class to prepare them for my eventual return and the wreckage that no doubt would be my face.
Dad tells everyone the same story. It is 23 years before I find out that it wasn't my classmates being mean, making stuff up. They believed what they were told. People at church had heard of similar incidents, people flipping over their handlebars. My brothers believed it. My sister thought it made sense.
Looking back I realize how blessed I was that day and during the healing process. I was riding my bike that spring after it was repaired. Yes, it might have been vain to pray so hard for something superficial like your face, but God answered that prayer. I had no scarring and no discoloration of my skin. The damaged tooth took much longer to heal and became a feature player in my appearance. If the chain had come off a fraction of a second later I would have hit the side of the bridge and my story would have ended with a broken neck.
Friday, December 6, 2013
How The Henry Ford Saved My Life
In September 2004, I gave birth to the most amazing blue eyed baby. My husband and I were overjoyed and I became a stay at home mom and homemaker. After four years of college and four years teaching Kindergarten. This was a huge change and I loved it. Then the days got shorter and my hormones crashed. Add criticism from what seemed like every direction (except my husband). The darling man that I married decided that he had to drive the vehicle that had the car seat and that my little car wasn't safe for his precious bundle of joy. I was stuck. Like my mother had been with no driver's license, no degree, no career and a baby. I adored my daughter, my husband and my dog, but everything became so hard. Like sucking mud covered me.
We live in an urban area. The air is thick and people are indifferent. I was isolated. Shopping was my only reason to leave the house. We were adjusting to only one income and EVERY purchase brought guilt. I sick with a kidney infection that didn't get diagnosed until late 2005. My baby was awesome sleeping only 20 minutes at a time and eating 30 minutes leaving me with 10 minutes of every hour to change and burp her. I was sinking fast with no lifeline in sight.
By the time Christmas came around I had a three month old and the people geographically closest to me had a lot of questions, mostly unspoken. My husband was concerned and he strategically chose my Christmas gift. Some men might have chosen diamonds or an appliance, we were still adjusting to the expenses of a baby and only one income. His gift to me wasn't especially romantic in the eyes of our peers and family, but it was perfect for me. A membership to The Henry Ford gave me a destination. That little plastic card was a sign that he saw me, the one with whom he fell in love. He recognized my struggle and threw me the best lifeline I could imagine, a baby/child friendly place of learning. The companion membership meant that I coulddrag invite friends and family. Not only was I meeting new people but investing time in haggard friendships. Here I found/find intelligent conversation, other moms, curious individuals, diversity of every kind, and a bit of green space for this country girl.
We visited at least once a week usually more. I was seen on the premises sometimes less then 2 days prior to the birth of my subsequent children and the day I came home from the hospital with one of them (not a good decision, pain killers do not help this mommy make good decisions). My second daughter's first crush was on Abraham Lincoln. We watched horse movies every day for an entire Winter because one child missed the horses at the Greenfield Village desperately. We wait each Spring for the lambs to be born. Know the rams by name, where the chickens lay the eggs, what buildings have kittens in them and when the cows are due to calve. My daughters think of Thomas Edison, Harvey Firestone, and Henry Ford as friend that camped together. The Wright Cycle Co.(where the first airplane was built) is a place we visit and pottery is not just made in China or Japan.
Every year when we renew our membership I am reminded of how much my husband cares for me, for us, and our girls. The Henry Ford Museum is still my place to go. If I ever had a free day it would call to me with the antique telephones, Presidential Limousines, pop culture exhibits, and the Dymaxion House . Greenfield Village with it's pastoral scenes and industrial age workshops offers solace while kindling the fire to learn, is one of my favorite places on earth.
Not only did The Henry Ford save my life, but it has made it so much fuller.
We live in an urban area. The air is thick and people are indifferent. I was isolated. Shopping was my only reason to leave the house. We were adjusting to only one income and EVERY purchase brought guilt. I sick with a kidney infection that didn't get diagnosed until late 2005. My baby was awesome sleeping only 20 minutes at a time and eating 30 minutes leaving me with 10 minutes of every hour to change and burp her. I was sinking fast with no lifeline in sight.
By the time Christmas came around I had a three month old and the people geographically closest to me had a lot of questions, mostly unspoken. My husband was concerned and he strategically chose my Christmas gift. Some men might have chosen diamonds or an appliance, we were still adjusting to the expenses of a baby and only one income. His gift to me wasn't especially romantic in the eyes of our peers and family, but it was perfect for me. A membership to The Henry Ford gave me a destination. That little plastic card was a sign that he saw me, the one with whom he fell in love. He recognized my struggle and threw me the best lifeline I could imagine, a baby/child friendly place of learning. The companion membership meant that I could
We visited at least once a week usually more. I was seen on the premises sometimes less then 2 days prior to the birth of my subsequent children and the day I came home from the hospital with one of them (not a good decision, pain killers do not help this mommy make good decisions). My second daughter's first crush was on Abraham Lincoln. We watched horse movies every day for an entire Winter because one child missed the horses at the Greenfield Village desperately. We wait each Spring for the lambs to be born. Know the rams by name, where the chickens lay the eggs, what buildings have kittens in them and when the cows are due to calve. My daughters think of Thomas Edison, Harvey Firestone, and Henry Ford as friend that camped together. The Wright Cycle Co.(where the first airplane was built) is a place we visit and pottery is not just made in China or Japan.
Every year when we renew our membership I am reminded of how much my husband cares for me, for us, and our girls. The Henry Ford Museum is still my place to go. If I ever had a free day it would call to me with the antique telephones, Presidential Limousines, pop culture exhibits, and the Dymaxion House . Greenfield Village with it's pastoral scenes and industrial age workshops offers solace while kindling the fire to learn, is one of my favorite places on earth.
Not only did The Henry Ford save my life, but it has made it so much fuller.
Off To College
Parents send there daughter to a "baby-nursing college" in Chicago.
The young lady is so excited about her career and being able to care for
infants. The program is straight forward, the dorm is attached to a
hospital and the learning is hands-on. Only one problem, the
Headmistress or Dean of this institution is a madame. Students are
forced into prostitution. Little learning takes place when the fleet is in.
The young lady that was so excited about acceptance into this establishment of higher learning refuses to participate in these extracurricular, but doesn't want to go home in seeming disgrace. She stays on caring for the babies, never allowed time off campus, food withheld, suffering emotional, mental, and physical abuse. This continues for months, until the madame decides to force the issue. A client is chosen to make this girl into a woman. She cannot describe what happened after the door to the supply closet was closed. Her next memory is waking in her own home the family doctor's face hovering above hers. She has no recollection of the incident. It takes sometime for her to regain her mental and physical health.
Teach your children they are worthy. That no one is allowed to use them.
The young lady that was so excited about acceptance into this establishment of higher learning refuses to participate in these extracurricular, but doesn't want to go home in seeming disgrace. She stays on caring for the babies, never allowed time off campus, food withheld, suffering emotional, mental, and physical abuse. This continues for months, until the madame decides to force the issue. A client is chosen to make this girl into a woman. She cannot describe what happened after the door to the supply closet was closed. Her next memory is waking in her own home the family doctor's face hovering above hers. She has no recollection of the incident. It takes sometime for her to regain her mental and physical health.
Teach your children they are worthy. That no one is allowed to use them.
Disapproving Seamstress
Pious mother-in-law is measuring her soon to be daughter-in-law for
her wedding dress. Upon taking her leg measurement she informs the
young woman that, "In my day, only loose women shaved their legs." This
motherless bride thinks of all faithful ladies from her church that do
NOT have hair sticking out of their nylons. She thinks of her mother who
loved only one man in her short life. This child bride answers, "My
mother shaved her legs in her day." The seamstress arches a disdainful
eyebrow and clucks disapprovingly. The foundation of a relationship is
laid.
Relationships are built. Be careful of the stones you choose you choose.
Relationships are built. Be careful of the stones you choose you choose.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Stuff People Did In The 60's
My parents were married in the early 1960's. They have celebrated their 50th anniversary. It has been a wild ride for them and their children. They have some stories that just blow my mind and require that I share, either to heal or to make sure others are at least as scarred by these stories as I am. These vignettes are not necessarily MY family history, they are just history.
Parents send there daughter to a "baby-nursing college" in Chicago. The young lady is so excited about her career and being able to care for infants. The program is straight forward, the dorm is attached to a hospital and the learning is hands-on. Only one problem, the Headmistress or Dean of this institution is a madame. Students are forced into prostitution. Little learning takes when the fleet is in. The young lady that was so excited about acceptance into this establishment of higher learning refuses to participate but doesn't want to go home in seeming disgrace. She stays on caring for the babies, never allowed time off campus, food withheld, suffering emotional, mental and physical abuse. This continues for months, until the madame decides to force the issue. A client is chosen to make this girl into a woman. She cannot describe what happened after the door to the supply closet was closed. Her next memory is waking in her own home in the care of her family doctor. She has no recollection of the incident. It takes sometime for her to regain her mental and physical health.
Teach your children they are worthy of humane treatment. That no one is allowed to use them. Teach them where to find help.
Parents send there daughter to a "baby-nursing college" in Chicago. The young lady is so excited about her career and being able to care for infants. The program is straight forward, the dorm is attached to a hospital and the learning is hands-on. Only one problem, the Headmistress or Dean of this institution is a madame. Students are forced into prostitution. Little learning takes when the fleet is in. The young lady that was so excited about acceptance into this establishment of higher learning refuses to participate but doesn't want to go home in seeming disgrace. She stays on caring for the babies, never allowed time off campus, food withheld, suffering emotional, mental and physical abuse. This continues for months, until the madame decides to force the issue. A client is chosen to make this girl into a woman. She cannot describe what happened after the door to the supply closet was closed. Her next memory is waking in her own home in the care of her family doctor. She has no recollection of the incident. It takes sometime for her to regain her mental and physical health.
Teach your children they are worthy of humane treatment. That no one is allowed to use them. Teach them where to find help.
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